Post by ophélie apolline de la croix on Jan 22, 2012 19:03:58 GMT -6
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; height: 380px; background-image:URL(http://i64.photobucket.com/albums/h177/animegrl-252/x0r3w0.png); border-left: 10px solid #1e1e1e; border-right: 10px solid #1e1e1e;] OPHÉLIE A. DE LA CROIX  HEY THERE, THEY CALL ME OPHELIA AND I'M CURRENTLY 683 YEARS OLD. I'M PART OF THE NOBLES AND I'M A SANG ROYAL OWNER. ------------------------------------------------- Have you ever been called a miracle? I’m sure you have. You parents probably saw you as much, because, truth be told, every parents claims their child is a miracle; a gift sent from God. If you had ever met my parents, you would doubt how much your parents revered you as a godsend. After nearly two hundred and fifty years of trying to no avail, my parents conceived me and I was born. And your parents believed you to be a miracle? Imagine having parents that spent the majority of their existence trying to make you, then succeeding when they were at their wit’s end. Miracle would not even begin to cover what my parents thought of me; no, they thought I was a god on my own. Quite frightening, yes, but they certainly enjoyed the idea that they’d given birth to a god, and took advantage of the prestige in as many ways as possible. Very few children are conceived from our kind, and when they are, the community goes insane. My parents adored the attention, and I revelled in it for a while. What child doesn’t adore being adored? Needless to say, being doted upon and constantly showered with praised and gifts did me well, for a while. Emerging from what humans would call the teen years in fifteenth century France was something akin to giving a starving man a chunk of bread. There was art, music, war, beauty and despair, and I loved every bit of it. The few times I was let outside our home, there was nothing more that I liked to do than roam around the streets of Paris until dawn with the people set to guard me. At the time, I didn’t understand the need to be followed, but I was so used to it that it became second nature to have people beside me, around me, or just following me in the shadows. Clearly there was something they were afraid of, but young and naive, I ignored it all. Frequently, I tried to push my boundaries, gain independence just as any budding teenager would; I ran. Not out of true rebellion -respect was far too important for me to do that, and I loved my parents- but for a need to push boundaries, to see how far I could make them bend, test them, force them to their wits end. To this day, I push people as far as I can, not only so I may know their limits, but so they can see them and overcome them also. Abruptly, the running ended. I didn’t grow out of it, I didn’t get lost and I wasn’t imprisoned. The reason I stopped was something far more affective. Call me a weakling, a traitor to my kind, whatever you wish, but the sight of a small girl, no older than six, coughing up blood and laying on ground with no one coming to her hair tugged at my heartstrings like nothing else could. I had never felt pain nor witnessed suffering, but from what I had read in books and heard from others, that must have been it. How lucky was I that I would never be touched by this? By some genetic default, these humans were susceptible to even the smallest of viruses, so fragile and feeble, but their fight, oh their fight! That was truly commendable. Not these vampires who lived without living, who were cautious for no need. Humans, who knew the inevitability of death at the end of their short lives, could seize the day and truly live. To think it is those poor souls that keep us alive. If others of my kind could see that these are not just toys, playthings or food, but that they have the life which we do not, they would be better off. For how can you truly live if you cannot die? The force of my feeble existence hit me then. I could live eons compared to these people, and I would not make half the life that they did. Jealousy was not something I had ever felt often, but watching that little girl die in front of me, an end to her suffering, threw me into a rage I had never felt before. Not only did I want to be able to die, but the sudden realization that these people -who yes, were as much a person as I- had very little time, and us so much, and we fed upon them, taking what little life they had and breaking their spirits, came crashing down like a pile of bricks upon my shoulders. The foreign feeling nearly drove me to insanity. Very few emotions had ever passed through me before this, and all at once they came running through my mind and I did not know what to do with them or what to call them. Voices in my head warring out, one side telling me it was horrible to be what I was, the other telling me it was natural and I had no choice. It went on for many years, my internal struggles, while externally I was very much the girl I was beforehand. None the wiser, my parents kept flaunting me as their most prized possession at their lavish parties full of blood, sex and the stench of death. Old as they were, I knew they had known nothing else but feasting to their heart’s desire, with no sense of self control or moderation. Everything in the de la Croix house was done in excess, a trait I suppose I still carry but in a very different manner. It was glitzy, it was glamorous and always a pleasure to be invited to what they appropriately called les Bains de Sang. For weeks they would slave over preparations, gathering only the fittest humans who would last the longest, cleaning out the rooms and assuring that only the best of the best would attend, to culminate to the point of midnight on the twenty-seventh of each month, when the humans would die and the rest would renew themselves in their blood. Unfortunately, their want of the fittest eventually drove my parents to their end. Their scrupulous killings of dozens of humans at a time did not go unnoticed for long, and soon enough, they had picked the wrong batch of prey. My parents and their party met their end that night, at the hands of humans who certainly knew just what to do to rid them of the Earth. I watched from a balcony as it happened; watched my parents burn along with their comrades. I dare not move. Had it been my day to die, I might’ve attempted to intervene. While they had been people whom I had loved fiercely, my sense of self-preservation won out and I remained standing, watching, as one by one they were overcome. I cannot recall being physically disgruntled or even flinching once as I watched the flames flicker over the corpses. There was nothing in my mind but a flame of its own. These humans were not as fragile as they claimed to be. They could fight back if they wanted to, overcome us if they willed it. Betrayal, certainly, is what I felt, and anger. Not at the humans who had killed my parents and their companions, but at the small girl I had seen not fifty years before, who had thrown me into such a tizzy that it had been impossible to me to think of anything else. She had led me to believe that humans were something to be protective, watched over and cherished for their feeble living, but in reality, they were just as strong as we. While I would never treat them as scum, as others did, from that point on, I remained wary of their existence, doing my best to make sure that they knew their place, which was prey, for their lives could be taken away at the drop of the hat, while mine was much more difficult to extinguish. If there was some sort of salvation, I would ask for it. Maybe not death, but forgiveness would be adequate. The next year was spent tracking down those men and killing them, though it’s not something I’m proud of. If they had wished to rise up to the occasion of vampires, it was to them to suffer the consequences. If they wished to kill the immortal, they should be prepared to die themselves. Humans are not my equals, nor are they inferior to me or above me. The haunting image of the dying girl made me hate them, sympathize with them and envy them, but the men who killed my parents made me fear them, wary of them, and wish them gone. Certainly a love-hate relationship if I’ve ever known one. I suppose a few of them are good, when they aren’t stabbing you in the back, or being used to sustenance, but those are few. Oh no, no, no! I do not shackle my meals, or leave them filthy, and I would never give them the privilege of death at my hands. If I cannot meet with Death, I wish to prolong their rendez-vous as much as possible. The death of my parents left me without a home, or rather with a home I would never step into again, and mountains of cash that I knew not what to do with. I made a home for myself in Sang Royal; my beautiful club that began as just a small affair after the Revolution. I’m glad to have it; it gives me a reason to throw parties and events just as my parents always had. There is nothing sweeter than having a safe-haven from the human populace of Paris. The underground is quite lovely, isn’t it? It’s been unfortunate that we’ve had to dispose of some curious humans who have ventured into our newest catacombs, but all for the best, we’re better off without them. I have quite a bit of time invested in these tombs, and it would be a shame if anything were to happen to them. My kind deserves somewhere safe where they can be themselves, and the streets of Paris certainly aren’t that. I am their protector for now, until they cross me, thought it’s doubtful. They need me, you must know, much more than I need them. |
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THE PERSON BEHIND THIS WONDERFUL CHARACTER IS GENERALLY CALLED DELL AND SITS AT SIXTEEN. SHE LIVES IN THE EASTERN TIMEZONE. ALSO, THIS CHARACTER LOOKS PRETTY SIMILAR TO EMILY BROWNING, DON'T YOU THINK?
[/div]THE PERSON BEHIND THIS WONDERFUL CHARACTER IS GENERALLY CALLED DELL AND SITS AT SIXTEEN. SHE LIVES IN THE EASTERN TIMEZONE. ALSO, THIS CHARACTER LOOKS PRETTY SIMILAR TO EMILY BROWNING, DON'T YOU THINK?
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made by brooklyn at caution[/center]
